"Mother's up," she shouted to Bessie as she went jumping down the stairs. "Let's have breakfast. Oh, Grace, you have been quick. You can't have done your hair properly."
"I did, then."
"Brushed your teeth?"
"Miss Terry, you're very uppish this morning. Just mind your own business, and eat what's put before you. If you were as perticler as Miss Grace——"
"Oh, Bessie, the porridge is burnt! Oh, how hateful!"
"It's not very bad," said Grace soothingly. "If you think of something nice you'll hardly taste it."
"D'you think I'm going to eat it? I hate the stuff anyway; nasty, drab-coloured mess! It makes me think of what pigs have to eat."
"Miss Theresa, for shame! If your mother would get me a new saucepan, a double one—but I think you're likely to have burnt porridge every morning. I haven't time to stand over the pot stirring."
"And it smells! Take it away—take it away! And I'm hungry. And the tablecloth's so dirty."
"It's Saturday."